


The antidote to boredom

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Intimacy, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Voyeurism, Mild uniform kink, Politician Tom Riddle, Seduction, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24499561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Harry was bored of acting as security for the Minister's private party, that is until someone catches his eye.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 10
Kudos: 332
Collections: Harry Potter





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> God, this is clichéd and repetitive and overall pretty darn awful, apologies, soon I’ll stop writing this rubbish and instead actually get some decent updates done.

Harry was bored. When he’d signed up for the Aurors, he’d signed up for a life of adrenaline and adventure, a life where he _helped_ people through crime and hardship, he certainly had _not_ signed up to be security for the Minister of Magic’s private parties; particularly, not the type that filled to the brim with pounce and pretentious patrons. 

He sighed and leaned further into the wall—the fancy carvings digging into his spine—and almost wished he could just melt right through it and be done with this evening. This party was especially _dull_. It was being held at the Minister’s private residence and only his nearest and dearest were invited so there was hardly a high chance of an insurrection. If he was being honest, Harry didn’t even know most of the attending politicians, he’d voted for one of them—of course, he had—but beyond that, his interactions with the democratic process were somewhat limited. 

As long as politicians didn’t cause obvious trouble, he was willing to leave them to it—just as he expected to be left to do his job.

Not that he was. Harry knew he’d only been put on this assignment in the first place because of his outspokenness following the last mission, and he was only outspoken because his superior’s singlehanded decision was responsible for the escape of a practitioner of the dark arts who they’d been chasing for months. It had been a stupid decision, rooted in incompetence and reeking of cowardice.

And because he had spoken out—or rather shouted out at the top of his lungs to anyone who’d listen— _he_ was the one now being punished. When his name had been read out for security duty, Harry had been in half a mind to march right down to the offending Auror’s office and just have out with it—but a shouting match followed by a suspension was not what he needed right now. 

Hence was here, leaning against an uncomfortable wall, watching the party (if something this dull could even be called a party) unfold. There was a team of five of them here today—one in each of the corners of the room and the fifth by the main door—a waste of personnel if you asked him—not that anyone had. 

Harry himself was stationed in the far-left corner, beside one of the side doors, and he was only allowed to wander a five-by-five-foot square—any more than that and they’d promised to write him up for insubordination. So, Harry had to content himself with watching the waiters as they wandered around with fancy drinks and those stupid hors d'œuvre that were more style than substance. 

And if keeping track of non-existent threats was hard enough, it was only made harder by the monotonous nature of the room—the same old, white politicians, wearing the same dreary black suit, wandered slowly about the room, having the same deadly boring conversations. Harry had had the displeasure of catching the tail end of a couple of those conversations when their conversers were standing right up against the wall in the guise of privacy.

They were tedious policy decisions and administrative hum drum, hardly worth the effort it took to surreptitiously listen in on them. 

However, through all the tedium, there was the glimmer of something mildly interesting. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry kept seeing a select few—numbering no more than three of four—guests that were from a distinctly younger, and far more noteworthy, crowd. Every so often, Harry caught flashes of them moving between the crowds, their fingers wrapped loosely around shoulders and arms and wrists as they sipped champagne and laughed with fake smiles. A rising political faction was the official murmur.

Bright young things with bright young ideas. 

Harry kept seeing them in his periphery—one with pale hair and one with dark—just drifting between the natural formations of people chatting, participating in conversations and then evaporating from one group and solidifying in the next one. It was stupid, but Harry began to play a somewhat basic version of _Where’s Wally_ with them; letting himself get distracted by the wallpaper as they got lost in the crowd before trying to find them again.

It was rudimentary in both the skill required to play and the intelligence required to formulate, but he was bored.

_Really bored._

After six rounds or so with his favourite man in the burgundy suit that was easy to pick out of the crowd, Harry was bored again and started to stare out the window instead. It was then that he noticed it. The slightest of pressures on his neck—a sort of itch—as though someone was staring at him and his brain was acutely aware of the fact; he turned away from the window and scanned the boring faces of boring people. Nobody was watching him.

And yet, that ache didn’t go away and Harry actually raised his hand to touch at his neck; still, nobody was watching him—except there _had_ to be, otherwise, his brain had finally snapped. 

Harry was about to go and report it—as was protocol—when he thought he saw the offender standing on the left-hand side of the room, but as soon as he took a step towards him there was a commotion on the right side of the room as a waiter, apparently not looking where they were going, had collided with a patron and spilt an entire tray of champagne absolutely everywhere. Like everyone else, Harry watched the bubbling liquid spread further over the floor, and at least ten people to speak in authoritative voices and start to set up a perimeter around the smashed glasses—probably all vying for a promotion and just begging to show off their management prowess. 

Unlike everyone else, he lost his professional integrity in the process because since the scene was so distracting (not to mention the only _really_ interesting thing to happen all evening), it was only out of the corner of his eye that Harry caught sight of someone opening the side door just four feet away from him and slipping through, undetected by everyone else. Well, fuck. That had been his one job: prevent people from going into through that door unauthorised, and yet someone had just gone through that stupid little door unauthorised. 

Could life get any better today?

Not likely, but if Harry didn’t want to get a warning, or whatever other punishment they saw fit to inflict on him, he’d better go and retrieve the idiot. So, with a quick glance about the room, and the observation that his superior firmly caught up in the clean-up operation, Harry bit the inside of his cheek, praying to every god he could think of that he wouldn’t be missed before he could get the offending individual back in here, before slipping through the door and abandoning his post. 

Behind the door was a narrow corridor that was more dust than wood and contained not nearly enough candles to light its entire length. Along the walls were low cabinets holding books, and a collection of family portraits, the sort that lined the walls of any pretentious pureblood home, except apparently on the panel where the intruding guest—which just so appeared to be his man in the burgundy suit—had stopped: that held a mirror. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry started, watching the shape of the man half-draped in shadows, as he checked his reflection, his hands raised to his throat and his fingers pulling at the knot of his tie, “but you can’t be here,” he continued, careful to keep his tone entirely polite—after all accusations of rudeness or impropriety were the last things he needed right now—as he stepped forward, his weight making the floorboards creak. 

The man turned his head towards Harry in an act of acknowledgement, his neck tilted lazily back, and his eyebrows raised; every angle of his face honed and refined under the dullness of the lights, the shadows smoothing out the rough edges like a stone tossed and grazed and finally rounded out by the waves.  
“Actually,” he said, his voice just as smooth and accented with an intonation that Harry couldn’t quite place, “I think you’ll find that I can.” With that, he turned back to face the mirror, his hands once again raising to his throat and fiddling with his tie, now pulling it loose around his neck. 

For a moment, Harry stood there, his mouth open, the sheer arrogance of such a statement was quite frankly outrageous, and it made Harry reach down his hand to touch at his wand holster, currently attached to his right thigh; after all, few people were willing to look an Auror right in the eye and defy them—and even fewer of those people were engaging in legitimate business. 

“Err—no, _actually_ , you can’t,” he said, clutching at the hilt and ready to draw it out at the slightest provocation, “because I have strict instructions to prevent anyone from coming into this part of the house—” 

“Does that include you?” the man interrupted, still not looking in Harry’s direction, “because, if it doesn’t, surely you should have stopped me at the door, and _certainly_ you shouldn’t have followed me.” As he spoke the last few words, he finally turned to properly face him and for the second time in the last five minutes, Harry stopped dead and just stared, his mouth hanging open wide enough to be embarrassing.

Even in this less than ideal light, it was obvious the man standing in front of him was handsome—more than handsome—he was absolutely fucking gorgeous. Why was it always the good-looking ones that decided to cause trouble? The ones that Harry could scarcely take his eyes off, especially when they weren’t guilty of anything too heinous—that was something they didn’t teach you at the academy: that sometimes criminals could be outrageously attractive, and you just had to deal with it. 

He was still watching him, his fingers clutching at the end of his tie as it hung limp around his neck, not that he needed the tie, that suit would have looked just as good without one—a couple of buttons undone at his throat, maybe without the jacket and with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow—Harry shook his head; he was _working_ and so it was really not the time to be eyeing up the clientele, no matter how tasty they looked. 

And whoever this was, was _certainly_ tasty, and he certainly knew it. That much was obvious from the deliberateness of his stance, from the curve of his neck to the arch of his back, his entire bearings oozed confidence. It was hardly surprising, after all, compared to all the old men in their boring black and pinstriped suits outside, the man in front of him looked magnetic—modern and daring and classy in that burgundy suit that warmed his skin and brought out the loganberry colour buried in his irises. 

“I was—I was following _you_ ,” Harry found himself saying—stuttering—slightly exasperated and entirely unprepared to face someone with sharp looks and a sharp tongue to match. 

“And look where that got you,” the man said, his hand splayed flat on top of a narrow cabinet as he leant against it, “stuck in a corridor with a man whose name you don’t even know.” When he said it out loud like that, it did sound stupid, but apparently, professional stupidity was his job now, so Harry just gritted his teeth and tried to think of a polite and polished way to tell this man to go fuck himself. But before he managed to find anything palatable for his tongue, the man spoke again.

“It’s Tom, by the way,” he said, still watching him, the slightest of smiles pulling at the corner of his mouth, “Tom Riddle, and you are?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure there are many things wrong with this.

The boldness of a man who was committing a violation, not only to be utterly blasé about it, but to also introduce himself by name, as though it was a green card to do anything he wanted, was frankly extraordinary, and Harry didn’t know whether he should be impressed by the sheer audacity it took to do that, or whether he should take Tom by the collar and personally escort him to the Minister himself.

He went with the former, just to avoid going back out there for another minute or so.  
“I’m Harry, Harry Potter,” he said, instantly regretting giving out his name to a man who probably had nefarious intentions—but then again, if Tom wanted to know who he was, he just had to ask the right people, so this was simply cutting out the middle man. 

“Good to know,” Tom said, his eyes dipping down Harry’s throat and lingering for longer than necessary at his collar, and apparently not satisfied with that, Tom continued to trace his eyes further down until Harry shifted under the gaze, his hand gripping at the hilt of his wand again, just to have something tangible to hold because there was something in Tom’s gaze that was decidedly _inappropriate_. 

Perhaps, it was the way his mouth curled upwards at the corners, or the way his hands flexed slowly, or even the way that he raised his brow as he made eye contact again.  
“I like the uniform,” he said eventually, as he tilted his head back—his throat vulnerable—and smiled, the very tip of his tongue visible as though he wanted to lick his lips.

Harry flushed. 

“Umm—yeah—thanks,” said Harry, hating how his words caught on the back of his throat, and that his palms felt sticky, and that he was entirely too hot under his collar, despite how cool this corridor had been just a few minutes ago. “But now, I’m going to have to…” Harry heard himself trailing off, as Tom raised his hand to rub over his neck, the tips of his fingers climbing up into his hair in a way that Harry would very much like to mimic, “…umm… look, I’m still going to have to ask you to… go back.”

“In there?” Tom said, nodding his head towards the door before turning back to the mirror, “not likely.” He continued to gaze at his reflection, his hands pulling at the end of his tie to even out the lengths of either side; “especially,” he continued, “not when I could be out here…” he glanced over at Harry again, his tongue flickering out to wet his lip, “…with you.”

“With _me_?” he said, whilst still glancing behind him like an absolute idiot—as though there was someone else that Tom was talking about. 

Something in Tom’s eyes flickered with amusement, and he hummed an agreement as he turned back to the mirror. “I need you to help me with my tie, Harry,” he said, and Harry wasn’t sure whether to breathe a sigh of relief or to be disappointed that Tom didn’t have anything more scandalous on his mind. He certainly looked like he had scandalous intentions with those near-black eyes that were like black holes, sucking in all the matter in the universe and tearing it apart as though it were nothing.

Harry swallowed, hard, and kept his gaze firmly on Tom’s, “umm—we both know that’s not my job,” he said slowly because it really wasn’t _his_ responsibility to make sure an adult that he had no connection to was suitably dressed for the occasion, though, at the same time, the thought of getting his hands on Tom was quite an appetising one. 

Tom just looked back at him, that slight smile affecting the rest of his mouth now. “Have you got anything better to do?” he said, his fingers trailing down the line of skin that was exposed between the two sides of his skin. It was undoubtedly a movement designed to keep Harry’s attention on the downright sculpted lines of his throat and on the strong length of Tom’s fingers as they hooked themselves over the material.

Well, it was certainly working because Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

“I thought not,” Tom said, turning back away from him again, “so, come on.”

Once again, Harry was struck by the sheer audacity of the demand; that strange and almost hypnotic that he was so important that everyone else was willing to bend to his will—including Harry (but _only_ because he had nothing better to do).

With a glare set into his features and a good deal of suspicion under his skin, Harry took a couple of steps forward to be in Tom’s personal space—not close enough to be inappropriate, but certainly closer than Harry had been to anyone this evening. Like this, he could feel the warmth of Tom’s skin, and see the proper colour of his eyes, not to mention smell his cologne 

It was somehow sweet and earthy and masculine in a way that made him want to bury himself in the crook of Tom’s neck and just breathe in that scent, which was fine, except for the simple fact of when, the fuck, did he become like a vampire, drooling over someone’s neck?

Harry exhaled deeply and, instead of fixating on Tom’s neck, let his eyes wander down as he pressed the palm of his hand against his thigh; they were hot and damp, which was just stupid because this wasn’t supposed to _mean_ anything. This was just him helping another guy out because it was polite and he was bored and it was just what Aurors did—but, if that was it, then why did he feel so fucking twitchy?

“Can I ask,” Tom said, taking a small step forward, the floorboard squeaking as he did so, “how exactly you think you’re going to reach my collar from that distance?” As he spoke, Tom gave him another long lingering look, and his tongue wet his lips again so that they were slicked shiny under the dull lights. 

“So?” Tom prompted; his hand reaching out to touch at Harry’s shoulders in a gesture that could have been friendly, but the precise press of his fingers into his shoulder made Harry hot and shivery and made his insides coil up so unbearably tight. Tom took another small step forward. 

And it was Harry’s turn to swallow, his hand still pressed into his thigh. “Maybe I wanted you to come to me,” he said with far more confidence than he felt. Not that Tom seemed to mind because he smiled and ran that hot hand of his along the full length of Harry’s shoulder, before letting it slide down his arm, the very tips of his fingers scratching over Harry’s wrist. 

“How presumptuous of you,” he murmured—his head tilted to the side and that smile not leaving his mouth. 

“You were the one asking for help.”

“And are you going to give it to me?” Tom said, his tone dipping low and rich and warm like hot molasses that made Harry’s throat too tight to even speak let alone make a witty comeback. So, instead, he took his own step forward, closing the gap between them, and _that_ made Tom smile wider, something glittering in his eyes. 

Ever so slightly, Tom inclined his head and exposed his throat just a fraction of a bit more. Like that, it was obvious to see what Tom was wearing around his neck was nothing more than a common or garden tie, and that there was absolutely no reason why Tom couldn’t have tied it himself. Except, of course, the fact that he wanted _Harry_ to help him. 

Whilst trying to maintain as much professionalism as possible, Harry reached forward and took up the two ends of Tom’s tie. They were smooth and cool against his fingertips, and the impulsive part of him wanted to pull at them and drag Tom flush against him.

But that was inappropriate.

_Really_ inappropriate.

Harry looked back up at Tom’s unbearably attractive face. He was still watching him intently, though his attention had shifted now, down to Harry’s hands; Tom was watching his hands as they trembled whilst running up the length of the fabric—brushing over his shirt as they went. And it was frankly ridiculous that such a tiny action would unnerve him like that, after all, he had done far more dangerous things than tie a man’s tie, and yet, _everything_ about Tom made his hands twitch and his throat run dry and his legs go weak. 

“Were you bored?” Tom said suddenly, breaking apart the silence that had been gathering, almost oppressively, like heavy rain clouds in the room. 

Harry shook his head and tried to focus on the words and not on what it felt like to run his fingers up Tom's shirt and brush them over the crest of his neck in the guise of tightening the knot. “What?” he said. 

“I said, were you bored?” Tom repeated, shifting just enough to make Harry’s knuckles bump against his collarbone—they burned to touch—and Harry felt another wave of nerves swallow his stomach, “because you looked it.”

“Well..." Harry swallowed, "it’s hardly my scene,” he said quietly, as he tried to keep his eyes on the loose knot of the tie and absolutely _not_ on Tom’s eye or mouth or even his face.

“Well,” Tom said, stepping closer and implicitly pushing Harry a little closer to the wall—enough that he could feel the firmness of the wood against his back and its coolness on the sticky nape of his neck, and he could see himself in the mirror opposite—looking entirely hot and bothered, “maybe, I could make it a little more _your scene_ , hmm?” he continued 

“And how would you do that?”

Tom hummed again even as his mouth spread into a smile, and he tilted his head to the side, his gaze dipping down to Harry’s mouth, where it lingered for a moment too long. “With a kiss, I think…” he murmured, “…right here,” Tom said, pressing his thumb into Harry’s lower lip; it was soft and warm, and Harry could taste the salt of his skin. 

He swallowed.

“I’m working,” he said, though it sounded unconvincing even to his own ears—too weak and limp and utterly unpersuasive. There were rules about this—Merlin there was an entire section of the Auror code of conduct about adhering to a strict standard of professionalism during _all_ working hours and in _every_ conceivable situation—and breaking them was a minimum of a written warning and more likely a suspension from active duty. 

Which was something that Harry really did not need right now, but, then again… he looked at Tom, letting his eyes wander where they shouldn’t—down the column of his neck and over his shoulders, at his hands and his hip and his— Harry snapped his eyes back up to Tom’s face, back to that smile that must have known exactly what he was thinking. 

Tom stepped closer, crowding out the space and pressing him more firmly into the wall. “Oh, I know you are,” he said, his fingers sliding down the lapel of Harry’s uniform, his nails scratching over the badge, “but I was hoping you would make an exception for me,” he said, his tone low and soft and ever so persuasive, “I am, after all, a citizen in need of… assistance.”

“I’m—I’m not sure that would be—really be—appropriate.”

“No one is going to know, are they?” Tom said, lifting his thumb back up to brush over Harry’s lip, before using both hands to grip loosely at his jaw—which was such an _intimate_ gesture coming from someone he’d literally only met ten minutes ago at best. Tom just leaned in a little more, his hip pressing low into Harry’s abdomen and his mouth hot against the soft skin just below Harry’s ear, “so darling,” he murmured, “can I kiss you?”

Not trusting his voice to remain steady, Harry just nodded—fuck the Auror code of conduct, a kiss from Tom would be worth breaking every rule in the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to leave it here, but that felt a little cruel, not to mention, rather incomplete, so... yeah another chapter will be up in the next couple of days.


	3. Chapter 3

The way Tom kissed him started off soft and slow and romantic, his hands cupping his face as though they were in love and hadn’t just met, but as soon as he got the hang of his mouth and its outlines and contours and grooves, Tom was decidedly _less_ gentle. Using the tip of his tongue and the points of his teeth to make Harry’s legs feel weak—though that might also have been because of the lack of oxygen. 

“Did you like that?” Tom said, his hand still pressed into the side of Harry’s neck, “because we can do it again if you want.” Harry scarcely gave him a chance to finish that sentence before he was pulling Tom back closer to him by the knot of his tie—undoing all their hard work—just so he could kiss him again. 

Tom pulled away again, his eyes glittering and this slight flush spreading, thick, over the tips of his ears. “Do you do this with everyone you find in corridors,” he said, almost breathlessly, “or just me?”

Harry didn’t even know how to respond, which was tragic really because he definitely _did not_ do this with just anyone he found in empty corridors, but he couldn’t find the words to say that. Not when there was the familiar, heavy, knot of arousal tugging at his stomach and scratching under his skin like some feral animal. He shivered, feeling all hot and cold and nervous, as he pulled Tom closer to him again, electing to get another taste Tom’s mouth rather than examine his own career failings. 

Probably encouraged, Tom started to undo the top couple of buttons of Harry’s shirt and ran his fingers over the crest of his throat as he did so; his thumb brushing over the bones at the base, before dropped impatiently down to Harry’s waist. Taking it as a hint that he should probably continue, Harry reached his own hands up to his buttons and made to start undoing the rest, but Tom’s hand caught him. 

“Oh no, darling, please,” he murmured, licking his lip and holding Harry’s gaze with those black eyes, his cheeks slightly flushed and his breathing a little too fast. Tom swallowed heavily, “keep the uniform on,” he said, “ _please_ , darling.”

Harry felt himself flushing again, but he lowered his hands 

Tom pressed his mouth against his neck, “there are two reasons I like you in the uniform,” he murmured as his fingers slid under Harry’s overcoat, “one, because you look so fucking _good_ in it.” He let the words hang there for a moment—echoing through Harry’s head—before hiking those same fingers up Harry’s thighs and hooking them around his belt loops. 

“And, two,” Tom murmured against Harry’s lips, “because I know that when I kiss you, you’re breaking protocol.” With that, Tom stole a kiss and Harry just let his head drop back against the wooden panels of the wall as he bit his lip and watched his own reaction in the mirror across the hall as Tom unclipped the buckle of his belt and eased the zipper down. 

“I like that you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, darling,” he said, “and I like that you’re doing it because of me.”

There was the faint sound of a toast being made on the other side of the door and Harry choked back a moan as Tom worked his hand inside the flaps. He was faintly aware that he was supposed to be out there, watching over that party, but those thoughts were quickly being overshadowed by the feeling of the softness of Tom’s mouth up against his throat and the heat of Tom’s hands burying themselves between his legs.

Apparently though, Tom liked the sound of his own voice—no big deal, after all, nobody’s perfect—as he was talking again. “You had better hope I haven’t got some nefarious plan,” he said with a smile and a twist of his wrist, “after all, I could be deliberately distracting you while my accomplices run riot in there.”

Harry shook his head and wrapped his hands tighter around Tom’s shoulders. Merlin that would be the worst possible outcome but if four other Aurors couldn’t deal with—at the absolute worst—an assassination attempt on the Minister without him being there, well, then really that was on them. 

He was about to try and make his tongue voice that wisdom when the door at the end of the corridor opened and a shaft of stinging light filled the corridor, not that it stopped Tom from pushing him harder against the wall and mouthing possessively along his jawline, even as he continued to palm at him through his underwear. For his part, Harry just hoped it wasn’t someone who was going to either recognise him or kick up a fuss, maybe—hopefully—they would realise their mistake and just go. 

“Riddle,” the stranger said. 

Harry didn’t recognise the voice, but Tom clearly did because he hummed a lethargic acknowledgement; he was also clearly comfortable with the stranger’s presence because he made absolutely no attempt to stop what he was doing 

“Riddle,” the voice repeated, now with a slightly irritated inflection, followed by the sound of the door shutting; this time, Tom did stop what he was doing to look over at the man interrupting them. Though the heel of his palm stayed firmly pressed against the lower stop of his zip in such a way that he could not get his breathing to even out. 

“Malfoy,” Tom said casually, as though he didn’t have an on-duty Auror pressed against the wall—flushed pink and practically begging for it, “right on cue; meet Harry.” As he spoke, he gestured vaguely to Harry’s face. 

Although he’d rather Malfoy didn’t see his face, Harry still jerked his head towards the door just for a look. Well, he got one, standing at the end of the corridor was someone he recognised from the papers: Abraxas Malfoy, standing there, all tall and austere, or that _would_ have been the effect if his cheeks weren’t stained pink and his eyes weren’t darting between him and Tom, before lingering decidedly on the positioning of Tom’s hands. 

Malfoy licked his lips and forced his eyes back up to their faces; he’d taken too long though and Tom had leaned back into Harry’s space and was nicking at the skin on his neck with the points of his teeth.  
“Riddle,” he repeated for a third time, louder this time, as though Tom’s distractions had nothing to do with Harry taking up his attention, and everything to do with the fact, he was merely _choosing_ to ignore him, “we need you.”

Tom shrugged, “well,” he said, “as you can see, I’m rather busy right now.” As to emphasise the point, Tom shifted his hand to rub tortuous little circles with the flat of his palm, grinding down hard enough that Harry knocked his head back against the wood again and sucked air between his teeth, resisting the urge to push back into Tom’s hand.

Although he watched, Malfoy was unmoved. “We need you _now_ ,” he said, calmly, but with a firmness of tone that suggested he was used to having to extract Tom and make him actually do his job. “And they’re looking for you too,” Malfoy added, directing his gaze over to Harry and watching him with a look that was somewhere between envy and disdain. Not that Harry blamed him, after all, who wouldn’t want to have Tom’s talented hands all over them. 

Tom sighed before kissing him lightly on the mouth, “sorry, darling,” he murmured, “if it was up to me, I’d have you right here, I might even ask Abraxas there, to join in.”

“ _Tom_.”

“ _Abraxas_ ,” he mimicked back with a roll of his eyes, as he pressed a business card into Harry’s hand, the sharp corners of it pricking at his skin. “I’d like it if you stopped by my office sometime, though,” he murmured again, the edge of his teeth catching on Harry’s ear, “I think I could make it worth your while.”

Then he was walking over towards Malfoy and a silent conversation appeared to pass between them, one where Malfoy was accusing him of something and Tom was defending himself, hands raised in vindication but the smile on his face proving him guilty anyway. The only words to pass aloud between them, though, was Malfoy’s order—accompanied by his firm grip on Tom’s shoulder—to at least _try_ and make himself look presentable. 

It was several uncomfortable seconds of staring at each other before Tom rolled his eyes and redid his tie to an appropriate standard and was thus allowed to leave. 

After the door shut behind Tom, Malfoy lingered a moment longer, watching Harry, cool and clinical, as he fumbled with the buttons of his jacket and the zip of his trousers—flushing as red as a strawberry throughout the entire ordeal.   
“If you don’t want to get caught,” he said casually, “I recommend that you continue down here and take the first left, you’ll come out in the billiards room; take ten minutes to make yourself presentable, and if anyone asks, you were running an errand for Malfoy, got it?”

Harry nodded, his hands still running through his hair and trying to get it into some semblance of order before he went back out there and lied to his superior’s face about what he’d been doing for the last twenty minutes—worth it, though, definitely worth it.

“I also recommend taking him up on his offer,” Malfoy said, glancing down at the card in Harry’s hand, “he’s free this Tuesday, from three o’clock, just so you know.”

Harry forced himself to swallow, “thanks.”

“Welcome,” Malfoy said before turning away, his hand wrapped around the door handle, “and Harry,” he said, “wear the uniform.”


End file.
